


Behind Enemy Lines

by Abalidoth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Napoleonic Wars AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abalidoth/pseuds/Abalidoth
Summary: (Napoleonic Wars AU) Cavalry corporal Lena Oxton is trapped in French-occupied Spain during the Peninsular War, in possession of vital intelligence for the British Army. She finds herself hunted by Comtesse Amélie Lacroix, the semi-retired assassin known as the Widowmaker, but soon larger things than Napoleon's conquest will be at stake for both of them...





	1. Chapter 1

_April 1812, Northern Spain_

Corporal Lena “Tracer” Oxton, 13th Light Dragoons, tried to breathe as quietly as possible.

Two voices drifted down from the circle of dingy skylight five feet above her head. A man and a woman, both French cavalry troopers, just an arm’s length from the mouth of the well. All they had to do was look down it, and they’d see Lena there, pressing her back and boots against opposite walls, hanging on for dear life. Any noise could mean immediate capture or worse.

“They’re hiding something,” the man said. Lena’s French wasn’t good enough for her to blend in, but she could follow a conversation. Especially one between soldiers; even if they didn’t have the same mother tongue, all soldiers knew the languages of terror and tedium.

The woman snorted. “People act like that in every pissy little village around here. And I would too, if my country had been saddled with the Emperor’s useless brother.”

Lena gritted her teeth. Her legs had cramped long ago; now there was just a sort of cold numbness, her locked leg muscles screaming at her to let go. The rough stone of the well was starting to abrade through her shirt. Couldn’t these idiots have their political argument somewhere else?

“They’re being evasive,” said the man. “More than usual. And don’t talk like that about King Joseph, someone might hear you.”

Laughter. “And so what? Everyone knows he’s there to keep the throne warm for _L’Empereur._ Listen, stop jumping at monsters. These villagers probably never saw her. British cavalry aren’t idiots, she probably knew to just filch some supplies and move on to the next village.  Come on, let’s head back to Salamanca and issue our report.”

The voices moved away, became indistinct; eventually, they were replaced with the sounds of hoofbeats on dirt as the French cavalry scouts mounted and left the village square. Lena held on another five minutes, her thighs going out the other side of numbness into screaming pain, until she heard three knocks on the stone of the well above her.

A strong but weathered hand reached down from that circle of sky, and Lena shimmied herself up high enough to grab onto it. She heaved a sigh as she let herself be hauled out. Her arms still worked, at least.

“Gracias. Muchas gracias.” Lena’s Spanish was much worse than her French, but she knew that much at least.

Rather than test her comprehension, the old Spanish farmer who had hauled her out answered in heavily accented French. “Any enemy of Napoleon is a friend of ours. You should stay for a while. It’s not much, but there’s room in my barn where the French won’t look for you. You can wait out the patrols, for a few days.”

Lena smiled sadly. “No. I have to get back to the rest of the General Wellington’s forces in Portugal. A scout’s not much good if she doesn’t actually report in what she knows.”

“At least let us feed you. You said you escaped yesterday? Have you had anything to eat since then?”

“No, no, I couldn’t impose. I’ve put you all in too much risk already. After all, a cavalrywoman is supposed to be able to live off the land behind enemy lines, right? I know how to do this.” Her traitorous legs chose exactly that moment to give out on her; she crumpled gracelessly onto the well-trodden dirt of the town square.

The farmer raised an eyebrow.

Two hours later, with a belly full of stew and a bindle with a loaf of bread and some _morcilla_ \-- Lena may have been a long way from home, but she knew good blood pudding when she saw it -- Lena set off northeast, away from the orange glow deepening in the horizon. She was glad her bluster hadn’t been taken seriously. She could probably get by with foraging in the English forests where she had trained, but out on these grasslands, with stands of trees so few and far between? She’d have to pilfer from farms if she wanted to reprovision without the risk of getting caught.

The French had taken her horse, her pistol, and her saber. She was left in the makeshift prisoner of war camp with only her uniform; and that was no particular blessing, given how conspicuous the scarlet coat was. Currently that coat was tied up in a sort of pack behind her, with some spare burlap wrapped around it to hide the color. She could fish it out again when the sun fully set; that’s when she would be doing most of her movement anyhow. The air was getting crisp, as April hadn’t quite driven out the chill of winter.

Reflexively, she reached back and rummaged through the pack, looking for a folded up piece of paper. She felt its rough edge, tucked inside her balled-up jacket, and relaxed. For everything that the French had taken from her, she felt she was still doing her duty for her country.

After all, a cavalry scout was supposed to bring intelligence about enemy troop placements. And what kind of intelligence was better than a stolen French deployment map, hand-annotated by _général de brigade_ Boyer himself?

\---

The villa rose out of the morning mists like a dream -- beautiful, but somehow _wrong_. The colors were too bright, the architecture too curved. Every morning, Comtesse Amélie Lacroix rode out into the Spanish countryside to try to forget her exile. And every morning, the sight of her borrowed Spanish villa, so different from her real home, reminded her of it once again.

At least she wasn’t coming back empty handed. It had taken her months to get used to hunting in the sere Spanish hills; the rabbits here were somehow wilier than the French ones. She supposed that was another thing she could be upset about; one more sign that her exile was slowly becoming her normal life. But it was hard to be too angry about the makings of a fine dinner.

The stable girl took Cauchemar’s reins and led her back towards her feed. A kitchen boy took the string of rabbits with an excited grin and rushed towards the house. Amélie followed him slowly. Her hunting trip was over, leaving her with little to do the rest of the day but brood. Why hurry?

She was shocked out of the reverie of habit and introspection by frenzied footsteps. Her valet was running towards her, one bootlace left untied in his haste.

“My lady! You have a…” He stopped, doubled over, trying to regain his breath. “You have a visitor.”

Amélie quirked an eyebrow. That was unusual. She had been safely stashed away in the middle of nowhere in northern Spain. Any kind of social activity was unusual and significant. And unusual, in Amélie’s life, tended to mean one thing. “Is he wearing a mask?”

The valet, Rodrigo, frowned. “Uh…yes?”

“Fine.” She sighed. “Well, let’s get this over with.” She doubled her pace towards the house, causing the already flushed Rodrigo to pant harder in an effort to keep up with her.

Amélie’s riding jacket slid off her shoulders in a well-practiced shrug. She tossed it back at Rodrigo, who managed to fold it without stopping to think. He was good, this one. Maybe he’d stick around. “I’d like no interruptions while I discuss business with this…gentleman. And who of the staff, other than you, knows he’s here?”

“Only Maria and I, my lady.” The head maid. Good. She and Rodrigo both had tight lips. “All right. See that it stays that way. And send up the ’76 port from the cellar.”

“Very good. Shall I bring two glasses as well?”

“One glass, and count yourself lucky I’m not drinking it straight from the bottle.” With that, she waved him off and burst into the drawing room.

A black cowled figure was bent over the buffet, pouring a glass of the good Cognac. “Hello, Amélie.”

“Reyes. Which of my staff did you browbeat into getting that for you?”

The man turned, his ridiculous white opera mask contrasting against the unrelenting, almost clerical black of his cloak.  He smiled. “I was the one who procured this for you,” he said, with a voice like broken stone. “I figure I’m entitled to a nip when I come visit.”

Amélie sat down primly and glared at him. Gabriel Reyes, the Reaper of Madrid, and King Joseph Napoleon’s personal spymaster, sipped at his drink, giving every indication of having no idea how much she loathed him. “Why are you here.”

“Why am I visiting Amélie Lacroix? Just for the pleasure of her sparkling conversation, of course. But as for the Widowmaker…ah, that is a different story. For her, I have an assignment.”

“It’s been three years, with the English breathing down your king’s neck, and the countryside in revolt all over. And only _now_ you ask for my help?” She huffed. “For someone who claims to prize me as an asset, you’ve left me awfully bored.”

He shrugged. “Things are difficult, these days. Often, even a well placed bullet does more harm than good. Which is why this isn’t a straightforward assassination.” He took out a sheaf of papers from under his cloak and handed them to her. Amélie took them and rifled through.

“Lena Oxton,” he narrated, as she read. “13th Light Dragoons, in the British cavalry. She’s risen quickly through the ranks; not of noble birth, but if she plays her cards right, she might be in position for a lieutenantship someday. Fine rider, crack shot with a pistol. Bit of a reputation as a rake.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Certain aspects of His Majesty’s government are on shaky foundations here in Spain, but I know how to do my job.” He cleared his throat. “Continuing on. Corporal Oxton was captured near Alba de Tormes five days ago, reconnoitering His Majesty’s troops. She was brought to the camp in Salamanca to be held for parole, but she escaped with a map of troop positions two days ago. We need that map to not fall into Wellington’s hands.”

“No.” She handed the papers back to him and turned toward the buffet to assess the damage to the cognac. “You want me to kill crooked politicians to grease the squeaky wheels of Napoleon’s empire? Glad to do it. But this is military matters. You and I both know I don’t get involved in war.”

“I think you don’t quite remember what’s at stake, Comtesse Lacroix.”

“What did you just say?”

“Simply that you should remember what leverage I have over you.”

She whirled on him, furious. “You’re playing that card _now_ _?_ For a _map_ _?”_

“It’s a bargaining chip I’ll use as often as I feel like,” Reyes said coolly. He stood, putting the dossier in a messy stack on the end table. “Because I know that you will never, _ever_ call my bluff. Good day, Amélie.”

When Rodrigo came in with the port, she was still standing there, staring at the half-open door. She thanked him levelly enough for the drink, but when she reached out to take the bottle, even he could tell that her hands were shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Emmalyn for proofreading! If you like where this is going, feel free to leave a comment or kudos. If I got some history wrong, especially feel free to leave a comment. I'm not a historian and I'd like to avoid making any grievous errors if I can.
> 
> Further chapters will be a little longer.


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, Lena made a bad decision because of a girl.

Her name was Daniela, and she was a farmer’s daughter living in a little farmstead by the crossroads a few miles from Arapiles. Lena was getting desperate by the time she stumbled across the wheat fields and saw Daniela walking among them. It had been three days since she’d been sent on her way; the bread and sausages were long gone, and Lena could only move at night. The patrols, it seemed, were getting more numerous with each passing hour. Already she had had to turn back from three different routes westward.

In short, she was hungry, urgent, and frustrated. The sight of a pretty girl in a checkered skirt, inspecting the wheat for pests, was a surprisingly welcome one. Lena had been taking one of her increasingly more infrequent naps, bedded down in the wheat field with her jacket between her and the rich earth, when she heard Daniela singing wordlessly a few rows over. The smart thing to do, she knew, would have been to stay hidden, wait for another night, make one more desperate scramble for the British line. But she hadn’t gotten as far as she had in life by always doing the right thing.

Lena popped up, squared her shoulders like sleeping in wheat fields was a totally normal thing she did every day, and waved at her. “ _Hola!_ ”

Daniela started, and high-stepped over the wheat fields towards Lena, firing a salvo of incomprehensible but good-natured Spanish.

“Oh, dear. Ah, _no hablo..._ ” Lena thought for a second. “ _Necesito… comeda?_ ”

Daniela laughed, a soft, papery sound like the wind through the wheat. “ _Comida_?” She mimed eating something. Lena nodded enthusiastically.

The farmer looked around, furtively, before waving Lena to follow her. Lena did so with gusto, happy that her gambit had paid off. Most of the people around here weren’t sympathetic to the French, she knew, but she couldn’t guess when she might end up with the one bad apple. Daniela chattered at her in Spanish as they went, and Lena caught bits and pieces of what she was saying -- most importantly, her name.

Daniela’s family lived in a big wooden building that was sprawling without seeming ramshackle. They went past a pen of sleepy goats and pigs, a coop of unusually rowdy chickens, and some rusted farm equipment before going in what seemed like a back entrance.

Someone in this household had a good eye for decorating with what was available. While the outside of the building was unpainted, the inside was done in dark brick reds, a few crucifixes and portraits of the Virgin adorning the walls. Daniela held her fingers to her lips, motioned Lena to wait, and slipped through a doorway.

Lena dropped her pack to the ground and sat down on top of it, once again feeling inside to be sure the map was still there. If she was delayed too much longer in getting back to General Wellesley’s forces, the information on the map might not be much use any longer. But hopefully if she could get some food back in her stomach, she could get her head back on straight and cut through the patrols.

Tracer shut her eyes, her lack of sleep warring against her empty stomach. As the smells of food cooking from the other room intensified, her stomach began to win out. Still, she drifted a bit, feeling relatively safe for the first time in a few days.

“ _¿Eres inglesa?_ ”

Lena’s eyes snapped open. Another woman was there -- not Daniela, but clearly related. Where Daniela was rounded, this woman was sharp, with somewhat darker skin than most Spaniards that Lena had met. She must have been Daniela’s sister or cousin, given the age. She stepped to attention, feeling exposed with this woman’s eyes on her. “ _Si_.” She smiled in what was hopefully a disarming sort of way.

The woman crossed her arms, jerked her head towards the kitchen door, and said something that had the word Daniela in it.

“ _Comida?_ ” Lena tried.

The sister-or-cousin shook her head and pointed at the door outside, clearly indicating that she wanted Lena to leave.

“Hey, all right, I don’t want any trouble.” She picked her pack up off the floor, looking wistfully back towards the kitchen. Looks like she had run into the bad apple after all. “I’m going, I’m going.”

Just then, Daniela came out of the kitchen with a basket full of food. She saw her sister-or-cousin and her expression soured. Daniela stepped in front of Lena in a way that seemed endearingly protective, and the two of them launched into a flaming argument in fast, fast Spanish.

Eventually it ended in either a stalemate or in Daniela’s favor, as her relative stalked away in a fury. Daniela shook her head and gestured Lena up the stairs to a small room with a bed, table, and chair. Through a combination of pantomime, pointing, and Lena’s limited Spanish, Daniela managed to convey that she should sit down and eat there, rest some before going on the road again that night. Tracer thanked her profusely and tucked into the ham and bread. There was even an orange in the basket. Daniela winked at her and shut the door.

Halfway through her meal -- Lena knew to take it slowly lest she cramp her empty stomach -- there was an odd thump against the door. She crossed the room in a few steps and pressed her face to the frame. Something was blocking the light through the crack in the door, and when she tried to open it, the handle turned smoothly but the door would not budge.

\---

Amélie made it to Salamanca in a day and a half of hard riding. Most aristocrats would have taken a carriage; or, had they decided to go on horseback, would have at least taken it much more slowly. Amélie was able to sacrifice some of the creature comforts her station afforded her. Luxuries didn’t matter when there was a mission at hand.

The French army outpost in Salamanca was makeshift at best. Their presence in Spanish country was still not entirely peaceful, especially after the Dos de Mayo uprisings four years before in Madrid. The tenuously legal occupation led to a bit of a logistical mess, and so the bureaucracy that kept the armies fed was crammed into a few hot tents outside the Medieval walls of the city.

Major Adélaïde-Marie Galois welcomed her as she rode up on Cauchemar. She looked crisp in her French Army uniform, in an environment that wilted lesser personnel like bad lettuce. Amélie respected her immediately. “Madame Lacroix. Welcome to our little operation.”

Amélie dismounted and looked around -- at the cluster of tents, the aides running back and forth, the slight unpleasant whiff of too many people working too hard. A couple of privates came to stable Cauchemar, and Amélie followed Major Galois into the largest tent.

There was a smaller tent of sorts, a weathered canvas partition that cut off a small room from the rest of the area. “You’re not the only thing that has changed around here thanks to the Reaper of Madrid’s intervention,” she said. “The brigadier general has been all but run out of the Army for losing that map. Everything’s in disarray while we reorganize -- especially with Wellesley, it seems, preparing to push further in after taking Badajoz down south.”

Amélie nodded. She didn’t care much about military organization, but she appreciated organization in general. “What do we know about this Oxton?”

“Reyes, I’m sure, told you everything he told me.”

“Broad strokes. But I need specifics. Who was sent to search for her, where did they go, what are your patrol schedules like? She could not have traveled so far in four days, not without running directly into a patrol or wearing that ridiculous English red coat in full sunlight. And how did she escape in the first place? Actually, we will cover that first. Take me to where she was held.”

“Of course, madame. She wasn’t held here, but in a jail inside the city that the Army has taken over for prisoners of war. It’s not too far to walk.”

Major Galois was a short woman, and Amélie had no problem matching her stride as they passed from the military outskirts to the civilian city. Spanish citizens glared at them as they passed, and shutters slammed shut in front of them. Whether they were glaring at her, the French military officer, or both of them together, Amélie did not know, nor did she particularly care. But a certain curiosity lingered.

“Have you had problems with uprisings here?”

The major laughed, short and sharp. “Everywhere. The people at the university are the worst -- they say it’s older than any university in France, as though that matters -- but the people are generally not fond of the Emperor, or their own king.”

Which, really, was the same thing. Joseph Napoleon was a puppet, and everyone knew it was so. This wasn’t politic to say in company, however.

The jail was obvious even before the Major pointed it out. Amélie could identify it by the stink of desperation, the way people avoided it as though they could be incarcerated just by looking at it too long. And who knew? Perhaps, these days, that was not far from the truth.

Major Galois exchanged a few words with the guards, both of whom preferred to gape at Amélie. She fixed them with a murderous look and pointedly inspected the stonework; Galois was able to get them access quickly after that.

“Do you know how she got out of here?” Amélie asked, inspecting the lock on the iron bars. The cell was little more than a hole in the wall; there was a bucket and a bedroll, but no window or other amenities.

“We don’t know. She was there for morning meal, and just gone a few hours later. She took most of the bedroll with her. Fifteen minutes of frantic searching later, she was spotted running away from the Army camp, and Boyer was missing one of his maps.”

The metal of the lock was cheap and pitted, but there was a lot of it. Amélie pulled a set of lockpicks out of her pocket and probed around inside the lock. She could get it open, she thought, but that’s with professional tools from the correct side of the door. Not to mention that she would have had to lock it again on the way out. “What’s on the other side of that wall?”

“More cells. That was the first thing we checked; there’s no loose bricks or anything like that. And she would have just emerged into a different locked cell.”

“And she took the bedroll with her.”

“Most of the bedroll.” Major Galois produced a key and opened the bars, gesturing at the filthy roll on the floor. Amélie stepped in, careful not to breathe too deeply, and crouched to look at it. It looked like about a third of it had been torn off, with the torn edge blackened like it had been rubbed around inside a fireplace.

“Other than whatever this is,” Amélie gestured at the sad fabric on the floor, “it’s clear that one of the guards let her out. Or someone else with a key.”

“That’s what we assumed,” the major said. “We’ve got all the guards who had access to her cell set aside so you can question them. Reyes was very clear to me that he’s interested not only in which one released her, but if any of them saw anything unusual during the escape.”

“Well,” Amélie said, committing the look of the place to her memory. Tried not to think of Henriette in a place like this. That was why she was here, after all. “Let’s go talk to the guards, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Emmalyn for proofreading!


End file.
